


inveniam viam aut faciam

by miscellanium



Category: Hellsing
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Age Difference, Ambiguous Age, Character Study, Kissing, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Priests, Public Display of Affection, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Harassment, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-13 19:27:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29158893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miscellanium/pseuds/miscellanium
Summary: Maxwell didn't plan it out—well, he did, but he isn't about to tell everyone that.[a young maxwell surprises father anderson with a kiss during a group lesson. he's due for private tutoring later the same day.re the sexual harassment tag - it's only the kissing.]
Relationships: Alexander Anderson/Enrico Maxwell
Kudos: 10





	inveniam viam aut faciam

Maxwell didn't plan it out—well, he did, but he isn't about to tell everyone that. Mention it during confession, maybe, but what sin has he committed? Does the Bible not describe kisses as a sign of respect, of heavenly love? Judas gave the most famous one, and since this orphanage runs under the name of Iscariot is it not fitting? So: an impulse to kiss the teacher, surely that little is harmless.

This is the explanation the bishop accepts, and Maxwell leaves the room with a smile that only Anderson can recognize as smug. Anderson can recognize it, he knows, because he'd smiled the same way after that quick kiss and Anderson had paused in a way that only Maxwell could read as consternation before returning the smile, this one gentle and genuine. The lesson had gone on, then, Anderson moving to help another student and leaving Maxwell with the taste of his teacher on his lips and the sound of his classmates gasping knocking around his mind. They'd gasped because yes, it was a surprise, but did they think it scandalous? And what if they did? They could do nothing about it.

Earlier in the month Maxwell had been told, in a private meeting with a cardinal repeating the weighty words of the pope himself, that he'd been officially selected to become the next director of Section 13. Not yet, as he was still a teenager all long-limbed and awkwardly growing out his hair, but reports from his years thus far at Ferdinand Luke's indicated that he showed the right kind of drive, ambition, and Christian self-serving fanaticism to command an organization with such a mission as Iscariot had. That wasn't how the cardinal had phrased it, of course, but it was clear what he meant.

Maxwell freely acknowledges himself as self-serving; why should it be an insult to be recognized as a person who understands that to serve God better he first has to serve himself? The Catholic Church would not have the power it does if the Church did not prioritize itself first. The Church would not have survived otherwise, would not have raised itself up high enough to dominate the world in the name of the Lord. And it can rise again, it will rise again but only if Enrico Maxwell is at the helm. He's sure of it.

It was this surety that led him to his lips against Father Anderson's.

The rest of the lesson was a blur, but no matter; he'd heard it before and was mostly just there to help the younger kids. It was a small enough orphanage that all the children were taught together, mainly by Anderson and occasionally a young priest fresh out of seminary, and the discussion always remained more or less surface-level. Future soldiers of Iscariot didn't need to know much. Maxwell, though, he'd taken the initiative to ask for private tutoring—one of the reasons the cardinal gave for the promised directorship—so the daily lessons quickly became unimportant but he remained involved to show he cared about the welfare of his peers. That it also meant more time with Anderson went without saying.

"Maxwell."

Anderson's voice stops Maxwell in the hallway. Had the priest been waiting for him? Good.

"I heard you talking to the director."

"Then you know I'm done with the meeting and ready for tutoring." He keeps walking, heading for Anderson's office. After a moment he can hear those familiar heavy footsteps following behind him and the sound of it is a thrill. To have such power, such obedience promised to him; his fingertips tingle as though he's touched a live wire and he folds his hands into fists. What would Anderson's hair feel like between his fingers?

Anderson closes the door behind them. The office is, as usual, a bit unkempt. With the right guidance it could easily look quite professional, but in the meantime Maxwell takes advantage of his presence to tidy some of the stacks of paperwork. The heavy volumes of theology piled on his favorite armchair can live on the floor for now (has Anderson even read them? There's a fine coating of dust with fingerprints here and there from being moved around the room) and he pushes the chair closer to Anderson's desk, uncaring of the way it scrapes across the wooden floor. There's already stains spattered across the floor, both from its previous occupant and from the times the priest's dragged himself back from a mission covered in blood. Maxwell's seen it sometimes, late at night when he was supposed to be asleep.

"I think I deserve an explanation."

Maxwell shrugs. "Didn't you say you heard what I told the bishop?"

"I'd like to hear it from you." Anderson looks over his glasses, expression neutral but voice reproachful.

The unspoken disapproval pokes at something sore, something Maxwell would rather not think about. "I did it because I wanted to. No harm done. Now, today's subject—"

"During class with everyone? You're not usually disruptive."

Maxwell glares at him. "I wasn't being disruptive. You leaned over me and your face was right there. Today's subject?"

Anderson stares back for a few long minutes before sighing. "Today's subject is the first iconoclast period of the Byzantine empire. Do you remember what page we left off on?"

They flip through the worn and dog-eared textbook together. Anderson is an avid reader but no scholar so these private lessons mainly consist of reading passages aloud with the occasional question to gauge Maxwell's understanding, making it easy for the boy to only partly pay attention as his mind wanders back to the kiss. It's not like he's going to be tested on this. He can say he knows more than the other kids and it's true and that's what matters. And he will know this Father in a way they never can, he promises himself.

"Enrico Maxwell!"

He snaps to attention. Anderson's frowning at him now, book closed.

"You haven't heard a word I've been saying. What's the matter with you today?"

Maxwell's face grows hot despite himself and the feel of it disgusts him but he shoves the anger down and lets it burn at the bottom of his throat. Control, total control, it wouldn't do for Anderson to see him raw, not in that way.

Anderson takes off his glasses, setting them on top of the textbook and rubbing at his face. "If you can't concentrate then I think it'd be best for you to—"

Now it's Maxwell who leans across the desk, grabbing hold of the priest's crucifix around his neck to yank him down where the boy can reach him, and this kiss is full of a force that anybody else might call desperation. He's done it, he's made Anderson stop talking mid-sentence again. And this time Maxwell can linger, noticing how his skin is surprisingly soft beneath the stubble where their chins meet, warm and followed by the faint scent of cigarette smoke. Anderson makes no move to pull away, like he's waiting for him to finish, and when the boy lets him go he sits back and reaches for his glasses. He's expressionless, the low afternoon light reflecting off the glasses across his lips and downcast eyes, as though he were alone in this small room.

People have called Maxwell many things in his relatively short life, most of them unkind. He's gotten used to the abuse—Jesus was mocked and found a way to make them all regret it—but not to silence. Throat tight, ears burning, he returns to his seat.

"Enrico."

Just his first name this time. He glances up, hopeful but not wanting to admit it.

"Talk to me."

Anderson's face has an expression he's never seen before. It's not any kind of contempt or boredom, that much he knows. There's no smile like the one he gets after answering a question correctly. Instead there's a look in the priest's gaze that Maxwell can only call gentle. The boy shifts in his seat, suddenly aware of just how young he is compared to the scarred man looking at him.

"Why now, Enrico?" Anderson's voice is full of what must be tenderness, he realizes, and there doesn't appear to be any judgement in those green eyes.

Kindness without strings? Impossible. If anyone thinks they can trick Maxwell just by pretending to be nice they're a fool. Then again, Father Anderson has yet to hurt him and he doesn't want to give him a reason to. The news from the cardinal had boosted his confidence, yes, and it'd also affirmed that he was making the right choice to not waste time trying to make friends. Yet if he's learned anything useful from his history lessons it's that every truly great leader has a right-hand man or a lover that pushes him to greater heights. Father Renaldo's been the bishop's right hand for years now and there's no reason to force him from the role when Maxwell ascends, but while Renaldo is exceedingly competent his imagination leaves something to be desired. So that leaves love and if he can make anyone love him it's Anderson. It has to be.

"Because I felt like it. I said that already." He lifts his chin now, projecting defiance. "I'm going to lead Section 13 in a few years so you shouldn't start second-guessing me now."

The priest chuckles. "Yes, in a few years. But you're not the leader now. You're still a student, and I'm still responsible for you."

"You should at least be thinking of me as your peer!"

"Is that what you want?"

"Of course it's what I want, what kind of stupid qu—" Maxwell cuts himself off because Anderson's still looking at him with an open heart. He was prepared for anger, for rejection, resentment, even despair, but not...whatever this is.

Anderson gets up and rounds his desk to kneel in front of Maxwell. Even on his knees he's still taller, forcing the boy to continue looking up in order to meet his gaze. He puts a hand on one of Maxwell's knees and doesn't react when that prompts a furious blush.

"When I was young I made a lot of bad decisions." He raises his other hand as soon as Maxwell opens his mouth to object. "You'll think the same when you're older. Everybody does. But I got into something dangerous. Didn't ask enough questions."

Anderson never talks this much outside of lessons. Even in the debriefing meetings Maxwell's been allowed to attend the priest says little, volunteering only the basic facts. So to get to hear such personal speech is like a door's been opened onto some private world that only the two of them will share, and a swell of pride sends a shiver down his spine. He's done it. This vulnerability means he's managed to make Anderson his in more than just command. Hasn't he?

"Pay attention, Enrico." Anderson's voice is still gentle but firm. "You're a good student—when you're not daydreaming, that is," he adds with a wry smile. "Always asking me why. But you need to start asking yourself that. Might find it easier to get what you want then."

"But I've gotten what I want." He just needs to hear the man say yes and promise to belong to him alone. He puts his hands on Anderson's still holding his knee, both together barely managing to cover it. The priest would always be bigger than him, thanks to the regeneration experiments; he can't say exactly why but the thought thrills him.

After a long pause, Anderson says, "Not yet."

Not yet? Maxwell tightens his grip on Anderson's hand. Surely he isn't about to be betrayed. Anderson would never do that to him. But now the man's leaning in, eyes closed, and—kissing him.

It's surprisingly gentle, the way he presses their lips together, and caught off guard Maxwell keeps his eyes open. Up this close he can see how delicate Anderson's eyelashes are, seeming out of place against that skin rough with sun, age, and scars. The kiss is firm enough that it can't be described as chaste exactly but it's not insistent either. Anderson squeezes his knee a bit and God if only he could feel that hand elsewhere, holding him tight, holding him down—

Suddenly Anderson gets up. Maxwell's mouth goes dry, his stomach lurching, but Anderson touches his head; while the gesture isn't entirely reassuring it quiets the miserable fear spreading through his body. Then the priest leans down and kisses his forehead as though in benediction and when Maxwell can see Anderson's face again it's transformed by such a fondness it almost brings him to tears.

"Take your time, Enrico. I won't be going anywhere."

He doesn't need to be told the lesson's over. He isn't entirely sure what happened but he's not quite being kicked out because Anderson offers him a hand up before escorting him to the hallway and closing the door behind him. The walk back to his own room feels longer than usual, unreal almost. But once he's seated at his desk, study guides for accelerated seminary spread out in front of him, it sinks in that instead of rejecting him Anderson has promised to wait for him. If the problem is simply one of age then in just a few years there'll be no objections and he can afford to wait now that he knows he'll get what's coming to him.

Maxwell's certain of it now: through faith and patience he will inherit the promises of God and the Church, ultimate power will eventually be his, and Father Anderson will be with him when his own kingdom comes.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are always much appreciated.


End file.
